


Mineshaft

by atlasathena



Category: Xenoblade Chronicles 2 (Video Game)
Genre: Brighid - Freeform, F/F, Mòrag Ladair - Freeform, Pre-Canon, Xenoblade Chronicles 2 - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-12
Updated: 2018-04-12
Packaged: 2019-04-22 00:22:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14296692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atlasathena/pseuds/atlasathena
Summary: It had been meant to be a simple investigation.





	Mineshaft

**Author's Note:**

> 10+ years of putting nothing online and this is the fandom that draws me out. Enjoy!

It had been meant to be a simple investigation.  
  
Mòrag laughs spitefully at the thought now while her body is pinned beneath a layer of rocks, a casualty from a cave-in of one of the old mining tunnels. The rest of her body splayed out into the wrong side of the cave - the side without light, the side without everyone else who could possibly help her.  
  
Her immediate reaction is to pull her arm from beneath the rock. The consequential pain is immediate. Not only is her arm pinned to the ground but it’s very likely the thing is broken.  
  
“We’re going to get you help Special Inquisitor!” She can just barely make out the words through the wall of rubble between her and the outside world. Mòrag clumsily tries to feel for her affinity link with Brighid only to find nothing.  
  
For a moment, panic strikes her heart. Is Brighid beneath the rubble? Did she return to her core crystal? The thought makes her feel nauseous though she can’t tell if that’s from the thought itself or the pain that’s shooting through the entire right side of her body.  
  
A familiar voice calls out. “Lady Mòrag!”  
  
Thank the Architect.  
  
“Brighid! Are you alright?”  
  
“Yes, unscratched.” A beat. Mòrag coughs dust from from her lungs while she waits. “And you?”  
  
“I’m fine.” I could be better, she mentally adds as an afterthought. Brighid will certainly chastise her for this later. She shouldn’t have been the last person out of the mine, shouldn’t have pushed everyone out of the way when the rocks had started to rattle themselves loose. She regrets none of the decisions she made however there is still plenty of time and pain left to experience for her to change her mind on that particular matter.  
  
“You’re out of range for me to help,” Brighid calls. Mòrag can sense her blade’s frustration. They both hate nothing more than feeling helpless.  
  
“It’s okay… I can wait.”  
  
Mòrag isn’t entirely sure if she can but the words sounds comforting. They comfort her, even though the pain is radiating through her arm and into her shoulder. Pain is such a funny thing - she can already feel her body disassociating itself from the experience.  
  
She reminds herself to pay attention, to stay alert. She has to make it through.

  


Her eyes slowly adjust to the dark. Rocks jut out in jagged edges, lines that cut through a field of shadow. It’s disorienting, to say the least. She silently calculates the odds of another rockslide by discerning the angles in the stone.  
  
Brighid has been periodically updating her of the Mor Ardanian army’s efforts to stage a rescue. Apparently there are few drivers with strong enough earth blades to remove the blast and they’ve subsequently put out an immediate notice for help. There are some travelling mercenary groups in the area who may be of assistance but there are no promising leads. Mòrag makes a mental note to recruit some more qualified drivers for this kind of thing moving forward.  
  
Niall has been updated and Aegeon has been down to the site already. Mòrag can hear him and Brighid converse though can’t pick out any of their words in particular. He leaves as he appeared - quickly, efficiently, and onto the next piece of business.  
  
The pins and needles have faded from Mòrag’s arm and left her with a sense of increasing numbness.  
  
She rolls onto her side, desperate to try anything to get the blood circulating back to her fingertips again. Mòrag tries to wiggle out from beneath the rocks and coughs once again at the dust that billows around her. She manages to shift the rocks to where she is more comfortable but overall, is still pinned to the ground.  
  
“For the love of the Architect…” she mutters when her arm refuses to come free. She rubs her forehead with her left hand. Her head is starting to hurt.  
  
Mòrag waits.

  


Mòrag has never been particularly patient and as minutes turn to an hour, to several hours, she finds that her mind begins to wander.  
  
She thinks about Niall, about her childhood, about the hours she spent studying Ardanian history. She thinks about dusty books and late nights spent reading by dim electric lamps in her bedroom in Gormott. She thinks idly about the first woman she ever loved, about kissing her in a hidden corner of Alba Cavanich under the moonlight, about how she felt like it was the most beautiful and poetic thing she had ever done even though she couldn’t find the words in herself to say it at the time.  
  
Mòrag thinks of darker things too. She wonders if she is destined to die here, left to be an unwritten chapter in the history of Mor Ardain’s Special Inquisitors. She wonders if this sense of becoming obsolete is meant to be her legacy. Mòrag has spent years learning to tame her ego but she isn’t naive enough to believe that she’s learned to deny it entirely.  
  
She begins to recite treaties she memorized as a child, lessons from weathered books that her teachers forced her to memorize. Her mind has always been sharp, almost mechanical in it’s efficiency. Even now as the pain clouds her thinking in murky ways, Mòrag can recall these things with an almost perfect clarity.  
  
Every few minutes she shifts her weight and tries to pry her arm from beneath the pile of rocks. She gets close, once. If nothing else, the movement is helping her regain some of the blood flow to her hand and her fingers. It’s only a matter of time. There has to be enough blades in the city to help.  
  
There has to be. 

  


An Ardanian soldier informs them an hour later that they have some intel of two drivers who may be able to do something. They’ve dispatched soldiers to find them and have been knocking on doors in Alba Cavanich despite the late hour to discover these mysterious individuals, and in his words - to pry them from whatever rock they seem to be hiding under.  
  
(The Ardanian soldier that says this coughs awkwardly into his glove after the meaning of his words dawn on him. Brighid is silent but Mòrag gets the sense that her blade is furious. She, meanwhile, groans in discontent).  
  
She chews the inside of her cheek at the news. Why must the Ardanian army be so incompetent? She is as much at fault as the foot soldiers who are working her case now but… her thoughts trail off when there is a subtle shifting of the rocks.  
  
Her heart lurches in fear and instinctively she withdraws her arm from the rock pile, only to find that it slides free.  
She uncharacteristically shouts in pure, unadulterated joy.  
  
“Is everything okay?” Brighid calls, concerned. Mòrag just laughs.  
  
“Better than okay. I’m finally not buried beneath the rocks. I’ve gotten my arm out.” She tests it experimentally. “It’s definitely broken, probably snapped in two somewhere, but at least I can move.”  
  
“I’m not sure if that’s good news or not,” Brighid reprimands. Mòrag can hear slight amusement behind her words nonetheless. “Please try not to harm yourself further Lady Mòrag.”  
  
She is already shrugging off her jacket and fashioning it into a sling around her broken arm. Mòrag is beyond excited about her own mobility, feels herself wanting to sing from the sheer joy of her circumstance. She can’t remember the last time she was this relieved.  
  
Mòrag takes to pacing the cave, stretching her arms and legs with as much flexibility as she can manage in a sling. She had always been a restless child, prone to the kinesthetic in lieu of any other form of entertainment. As she got older, the restlessness had given her an edge in physical training, more energy than the other students or soldiers her age.  
  
Right now, she just finds it bothersome.  
  
Mòrag thinks about time.  
  
She had joined the army when she was sixteen, hardly aware of what physical effort would be required of her. The days following that decision were rigorous; she learned to use her mind and body in ways that she had never experienced. Two years later, she had awakened Brighid. and by twenty-one, had become the youngest Special Inquisitor of Mor Ardain.  
  
This timeline stands out to her now, her achievements punctuated like stars in a constellation. Achievement and pragmatism have always been her touchstones but they mean less here than they do in the palace.  
  
It’s not that she’s so old now that there is nothing left to achieve but she wonders if the epaulettes on her uniform hold the weight of her happiness. They are just symbols of her success, after all, and Mòrag wonders if she is just a symbol herself, something that gives meaning conveniently until it is no longer relevant. 

  


The irony of being stuck in a mineshaft is not lost on her.  
  
Mineshafts are the technological pride of Mor Ardain. They are the roots of innovation, the birthplace of elements and compounds they’ve needed to move forward on this barren titan.  
  
They are also dark and endlessly deep. If she isn’t careful, Mòrag could lose herself entirely wandering down the corridors as they descend into the belly of her world.  
  
She is much the same, she thinks. She is the first woman and certainly the youngest to shoulder the mantle of being Special Inquisitor. Her existence alone is innovation enough, a beacon to the future of her country and the empire.  
  
In the same token, it’s her pride, her fierceness, her doggedness that has gotten her this far. She’s treated her entire life like a fist-fight, always taking the first hit without much thought for what comes after. It’s a dangerous balance. She’s been able to protect Niall, to rise through the ranks, to help those who otherwise couldn’t help themselves with this mentality.  
  
This hastiness, however, does not come without consequence and Mòrag fears it will be the thing that destroys her despite its necessity in her life. 

  


It’s been hours, she thinks.  
  
The darkness of the cave has started to feel claustrophobic. Mòrag concentrates on her breathing. Her broken arm is throbbing with a dull but increasingly familiar pain.  
  
“Brighid?” Mòrag calls out, uncertain if her blade is still there.  
  
“Yes Lady Mòrag? What is it?”  
  
Mòrag sighs. “It’s just good to hear your voice, that’s all.”  
  
There is a pause from the other side. She leans her head against the wall. If she tries hard enough, Mòrag can almost imagine that Brighid is beside her, shoulder to shoulder, as they wait for help. It’s a cheap imitation of the real thing but it’ll have to do for now.  
  
“I’m not leaving until we get you out,” Brighid replies stubbornly, moments later. Mòrag smiles softly.  
  
“I suppose we’ve been together long enough. I should never have presumed you would leave me here now.”  
“Certainly.”  
  
Mòrag desperately wishes she could reach out and touch her blade. The thought makes her ache deep into her bones. She supposes she’s taken Brighid for granted too many times to count and finally, now, trapped in the dark, she has the time to let her regrets steep without distraction.  
  
“At risk of sounding foolish… I miss you.”  
  
Brighid’s voice is low and warm when she finally responds. “I miss you too.”

  


She’s drifted off to sleep and is awakened suddenly by a resounding crack that seems to hang in the air. When Mòrag opens her eyes, she sees a beam of light pouring in through the fallen rocks.  
  
“Special Inquisitor! Are you alright?”  
  
“Yes, I’m here.” Mòrag squints. Her eyes begin to readjust to the early morning light of Mor Ardain. “Am I to take it we’ve finally found someone to remove this pile of rocks?”  
  
“Yes ma’am!” Another crack in the air as a narrow channel opens, just enough space for her to sidle her way through. “Can you walk?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Mòrag slowly pulls herself to her feet and manages to walk out into the light. An audience has gathered and cheers for her as she emerges. She is sure that she looks as disheveled as she feels. She blinks a few times until her eyes fully adjust.  
  
She takes a deep breath in, thanks the drivers and blades who freed her, and issues a series of commands as if she hadn’t just spent the night on the floor of a cave. Mòrag desperately wants a hot bath and will undoubtedly sleep for hours once someone applies some healing arts on her arm but for now she is still in the field, is still the Special Inquisitor, and still has a duty to perform.  
  
Brighid approaches her and stands near enough to where Mòrag can feel the heat radiating off of her. She smiles at the thought. Mòrag wants nothing more than to be alone with her blade but for now is content with this, content to walk together back to the palace, content with just breathing fresh air.  
  
“I was worried about you,” Brighid says quietly under her breath as they walk. “I am relieved to see that you’re okay.”  
  
Mòrag wants to stop them both in their tracks, Ardanian politics and professionalism be damned, and kiss Brighid until they are both absolutely breathless. The urge is almost overpowering and she finds herself feeling weak-kneed at the thought.  
  
“It seems as if everything has worked out after all. A satisfactory conclusion,” she replies, though she is thinking about kissing Brighid.  
  
Brighid only hums in response. Mòrag senses something is off with her blade and turns to face her.  
  
“What?” She asks with an eyebrow raised. Brighid lets go of a breath that feels the length of years.  
  
“Must you always save people at your own expense?”  
  
No, Mòrag thinks. She doesn’t have to do any of the things she does. She could spend her time as a politician in-court, committed to hours of idle conversation and debate about policy. She could spend her time advising Niall, protected and out of sight from any real danger.  
  
She could do those things but none of them are really her when it comes down to the substance of the matter. And in any case, had she chosen a more sedentary path, she would have never had the opportunity to resonate with Brighid. Her blade knows as much but navigating their feelings when harm comes as an occupational hazard has always been difficult terrain to traverse.  
  
Mòrag furrows her brow and reaches out, touching Brighid’s arm with two fingers as if it’s all she’s allowed. 

  


Later, they kiss slowly, carefully, as the moon begins to rise over the horizon. Mòrag’s broken arm rests by her side as Brighid kisses her neck, her collarbone, her lips. They hug each other tightly and Brighid’s fingers trail idly across her stomach and chest as she begins to drift off to sleep.  
  
While a mineshaft is a dark place to be stuck in, it has made her appreciate the light of stepping outside.

  



End file.
